Argosy All-Story Weekly, February 4, 1922 — page 73: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE instant, was caught in thee opened arms of Belle. She clung to him, laughing and ex- cited. * Lemme go!” he rumbled. ’im out, Ah will!” “ Ah’ll flat “You'll not,” she commanded. “ Now, be quiet, Dave!” His arms dropped to his sides. Puzzled, he looked down at the girl like a great, stupid dog who recognizes his master in a little child. ; “ Ah’ll do ’im in, Belle, if y’ say the word,” he growled, still threatening. “ ’E’ll na tell me ’e’ll na gi’ a domn!”’ The girl’s voice was soft as falling water: “ He’s not worth it, Dave—it was only a fool trick of mine.” Again the girl laughed, conscious of her power, stepping back to the doorway again, leaving Hopewell Da- vies standing sheepishly. William’s face burned deep and ardent red. Then Limpy, foolish and reeling—it had-taken all this time to get himself disen- tangled from the crowd—took a none too steady hand in the proceeding. He halted up to the side of the Cornishman, shaking an admonitory finger beneath his nose. ‘Wha’ y’ mean,” Limpy accused stut- teringly, “ ga’en awa’ wi'oot yer whusky? We're frien’s here—wah’ y’ wanna whup wee Wullie noo?”’ A roar of laughter drowned his further stammerings. The excitement was over; there was a concerted movement toward the bar. William stood where he had stopped, his hands twitching nervously. The bearded man had not moved from his corner. Now he rose, turned down a page in his book, and carefully put the little volume in his pocket. “ Time!” he called, without further explanation. Some of the miners looked in his direc- tion. One spoke: “ Aw, hell, Hugh, we got fifteen minutes yet.” “Time!” said Silent Hugh again, inex- orably. Miners and smeltermen began drifting toward the door. Belle Shannon had dis- appeared. Through the shadowed doorway where she had stood a dim light gleamed from the rear of the establishment. NIGHT SHIFT. Paus- > 383 ing with the last glass filled, the Logger wiped his wet hands on a stained apron. William, backed against the battered piano by the wall, watched the exit of the miners with smoldering eyes. He had been made to feel ridiculous and ashamed; more than that, he had been made to feel the sting of vulgar humor by a barroom clown. But how long that chance-hit name, “wee Wully ”—which would become mere Willy bye-and-bye—would remain his pe- culiar personal possession he did not know. Nor would that knowledge have helped to soothe his feelings. Presently William followed the miners from the room. Most of them had gone talking and laughing loudly “ up the hill.”’ Silent Hugh McGregor, conscious of his responsibility, hurrying the last of the re- luctant gang into the street, was almost alone in being left behind. The chill of evening on the Great Plateau was already descending on the mountain- side. On the hill, about the smelter and the mine, a hundred arc lights winked like huge white fireflies against the dusk; now and then shining, white-hot floods of molten slag leaped from the dark summit of the dumps, fell down the black slopes in silver flame that cooled, descending, to an angry, lurid red until augmented by new lava tor- rents from above. With each new display, hurrying pygmy figures could be seen poised on the brink of the precipice, gnomes who labored about tiny trains of cars that hastened backward and forward between the slag dumps and the furnaces, The night breeze was cool on William’s fevered face, the poison of the cheap whis- ky still busy in his brain. On the rickety board sidewalk he paused for a moment, uncertain what to do. Across the street the flutter of a woman’s skirt passing before the lighted ‘windows of a store attracted his attention. He caught a glimpse of fine-spun, gleam- ing hair, a golden aureole as the yellow light shone through. He crossed the street hastily, and quite steadily. Margaret Ames, hurrying homeward to a delayed supper, hesitated as he stepped COmiclbooks.Gom